


The Mighty Bush

by castoffstarter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, an impressive amount of body hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter/pseuds/castoffstarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles is looking for someone who can appreciate him au natural. An AU of the uni variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mighty Bush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliferuined](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliferuined/gifts).



> For Sadie Mae Blue Bell Hog Head, for making sure I was properly bushwacked. You're an even bigger monster than me, and that's how I know it's true love. Happy Birthday ya doof.
> 
> Endless thanks to [Natalie](http://louishamlinson.tumblr.com/) for allowing me to use words that have come out of her mouth in this work of fiction, and [Lindsay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/pseuds/icecreamsocialist) for the beta and reassuring me this wasn't a fever dream even though it was, just a little.
> 
> I'm sorry.

_____________________

Harry climbs out of the shower but doesn’t bother drying off, instead opting to brush his teeth with the bathroom door swept wide and water pooling at his feet. If Liam were home he’d holler with that adorable pout of his, but Liam’s still at the library until they’re supposed to meet for supper, and even though they have separate bedrooms, Harry doesn’t often get the alone time he likes in order to do this. As it is, he hasn’t had a chance to stand starkers in front of the floor length mirror on the back of his bedroom door in weeks. Liam’s too polite to say anything but Harry knows he’s been pulling more than the usual amount of hair from the shower drain.

 

He grabs the toiletry bag under the bathroom sink labeled “Important Man Stuff” and leaves a trail of wet footprints as he crosses the common room of their suite, blinds wide open, to take a good look at what he’s working with. He pulls a stool over from the breakfast bar -- it’s really just a flimsy excuse for a counter, holding their microwave and some plastic bowls and plates -- and unrolls the bag to reveal a pair of sharp hair shears and a variety of fine tooth combs, neatly tucked into the fabric originally designed to carry travel sized bottles of shampoo.

 

It’s getting harder, with all these dumb growth spurts, to keep up his routine alone since he went away to university. He won’t admit it out loud -- he doesn’t care how many times Liam turns doe eyes on him when he returns from nights out -- because admitting it makes it even less likely to happen, but he wishes for a day when he won’t have to rely on a mirror to do his trims. As much as he likes the natural light coming in from the quad, and the ability to turn and see himself from head to toe, he doesn’t much fancy how often he nicks himself with the scissors while bending over to cut straight edges down from his belly. His curls obstruct his view or he stands in his own light, and the one time he tried to use the mirror as a guide he forgot about the whole reflection aspect and nearly snipped his scrotum.

 

The fact is, Harry knows he needs a bush buddy.

 

It’s not like he’s bereft of willing partners, because he’s not. Sure, sometimes he gets drunk on Moscato and clings to Liam’s waist while texting his mother increasingly cryptic and morose messages about secret gardens, but he pulls enough to put even Niall to shame. He’s good at it, sliding up to pretty girls and boys and letting his lips catch the shell of their ears, breath hot and voice low. He tells goofy jokes, talking slow and smiling just before the punch line so his dimples widen. He knows when to touch and where, and when he wants to go home, he’s never alone.

 

The problem is that one night stands, as awesome as they are, and as much as his dick appreciates the effort his face puts into it, are not conducive to finding a long term friend for his heart. Or his pubes. He’s dated around a fair bit, two or three times that could be considered relationships, but his heart still broke a little when the comments started. They were unassuming, careless things, short moments suspended above the rest of the happy memories, where each person inevitably tried to dissuade his grooming habits. “I could shave it for you, babe,” or “bet you could slide smoother if you waxed like me,” and Harry always pulled away before they got too serious. 

 

Besides, it’s not like he’s averse to compromise. He _trims_. 

 

He looks himself up and down in the mirror, shivering a bit as the water starts to evaporate against his skin. Running his fingers over the row of combs, Harry selects a wide set, soft-toothed one and lifts his left arm, bent at the elbow, to rest over his head. The hair of his armpit is still damp, stuck together in small curls and tufts, and Harry hums to himself before running the comb through it. He watches in the mirror as he counts back from a hundred, and by the time he brushes through the last stroke, his hair has dried into a fluffy patch. He repeats the process for his right arm, and when he’s done his head is starting to dry around his ears and frizz at the ends. 

 

He bounces on the balls of his feet, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. When he replaces the comb in its little nook, he pauses for a moment to consider his next move. Instead of the black comb he usually uses for the next part, he opts for the delicate ivory handled one Liam and Niall gifted him with last Christmas. Its thin, sharp teeth remind him of the cheap plastic combs that came in the special shampoo his mum had to buy that summer he and his sister Gemma traded nits back and forth. When he straightens back up he smirks at himself in the mirror, curling a pinky into his almost dry pubic hair. It’s coarse and thick and so dark brown it’s almost black, and Harry loves the way the ivory teeth look separating the tiny hairs. 

 

He takes his time combing down and up and pulling out a bit, to see the direction of hair growth but mostly to fully appreciate the way each hair seems to spring back into a rough half curl. Using the scissors pointing down along a curved line, he hedges the edge of his bush where it has started to grow messy and uncoordinated. He even brushes up a bit to lower the edge along the top, just below where his boxers normally sit.

 

Biting his bottom lip to keep the arousal stirring in his gut at bay, Harry finishes quickly, cleans up, and texts Niall to get his help in convincing Liam to go out. He needs a good lay, he thinks, if a simple trim is getting him worked up.

_____________________

That night, after Harry has eaten his fruit snacks and pulled on some clothing, he makes Liam carry him to the club so he and Niall can play patty cake without tripping. Well, Niall still trips, but Harry thinks his own coordination is on point. It’s possible they may have pregamed a little too much back at the dorms. The line is long but the bouncer at the door lets them in ahead of the queue. Liam says it’s just because Paul likes him but Harry knows better. Liam is beautiful like a statue. Liam works out a lot. Liam is _dangerous_. Liam is also laughing at him.

 

“Stop laughing, Liam, stop it.” Harry needs a drink. “You can’t laugh at the truth!” He takes out his wallet and peels three bills from it. “Now go get us all drinks for your cheek, young man,” he says while trying to stuff the money down Liam’s pants.

 

“Don’t get lost, you idiot. Niall, don’t let him get lost. I don’t want a repeat of last time.” Liam sounds fond so Harry decides to forgive him. It doesn’t stop him from smacking Liam’s bum as he pushes away through the crowd to find the bar.

 

Harry turns to Niall, a smile slowly splitting his mouth open. He probably looks like a guppy but he’s okay with it. Fish are cool.

 

Niall slings an arm over his shoulder and smacks him in the stomach. “Alright, mate, let’s get you dancing. Those homemade daiquiris went right to your head.” His laughter is louder than usual, though, so Harry knows Niall liked them, too. 

 

“You look like you just gave the best blowjob of your life, Niall. I kind of want to lick your lips. Can I lick your lips?” Harry furrows his brow in concentration and keeps staring at the pink stain of Niall’s mouth. Niall laughs again, pushing Harry backwards towards the dance floor, people moving in on them, before he lets go and steps backwards, allowing Harry to be swallowed up in the crush of bodies.

 

“Sorry, mate! These lips’ve got other plans tonight!” It’s a good thing that Harry’s still staring intensely at Niall’s mouth because it’s so loud he’s mostly lip reading the words, and then Niall is turning around being pulled away by someone with dark hair. Or at least that’s the last Harry sees before he’s being enveloped by the crowd.

 

He doesn’t know how long he dances for. There’s a steady thrumming in his veins that he likes, a mixture of sugary alcohol and bass, and when he presses up against the people around him it feels too warm and tacky and nice, and he forgets about trying to pull.

 

That is, until there’s a hand on his waist and a voice in his ear laughing, “Hi.” Harry shimmies until he can twist around and almost knocks the guy out, his long limbs flailing a bit. It really is quite crowded. The boy laughs again, and takes Harry’s hand to keep him from going too far. He’s well fit, this boy, a bit dishevelled and sweaty, cheeks flushed and hair drooping from it’s carefully windswept look. He’s almost a head shorter than Harry so when he speaks again he has to lean up to reach his ear. “Come do shots with me. You dance about as well as I do, mate.” His voice is hot against Harry’s neck, tone lightly mocking, and Harry doesn’t even have a chance to nod his head yes before he’s being pulled through the crowd to the bar. The guy orders sambuca with a hot little grin thrown over his shoulder and then makes Harry spill a bit when he licks over Harry’s neck before downing his own glass.

 

They’re on their third round of shots before the boy even introduces himself.

 

“I’m Louis, by the way.” He holds his hand out to shake and Harry hugs him. He doesn’t mean to, exactly, but the shots worked quick, and Louis is weird, and sometimes Harry can’t help himself.

 

“I’m Harry. I’d quite like to blow you, if that’s all right.” 

 

Louis practically runs them to the toilets.

_____________________

Harry’s feeling romanced. He’s kneeling on hard tile with Louis’s cock hot and heavy on his tongue, and Louis keeps thumbing at the corner of his mouth with a shy smile on his face. They had had to wait a good five minutes to get an open stall, and the whole time Louis held Harry’s hand like he was content to do so all night. It took all of Harry’s willpower not to stick his hand down his own pants. Now that he’s got the chance, though, all he can think about is the feeling of Louis’s balls touching his chin as he dips down so far he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from gagging. Louis is making these small, aborted noises, like he doesn’t want to share them with the other people in the bathroom, and as much as Harry’s foggy brain knows it’s just so they won’t get thrown out of the club, he likes the sound of them, the helpless arousal.

 

He pulls off and starts pumping Louis with one hand while he flattens his tongue along the shaft, sucking open mouthed kisses down until he can take one of Louis’s balls into his mouth, rolling it around before popping it back out again. He hears rather than sees Louis’s head hit the back of the stall and smiles against the hot skin of Louis’s hip. Dipping back down, he licks the slit of Louis’s cock with a flat tongue before swallowing again, lips tight, and runs the blunt edge of one nail along Louis’s perineum. Louis’s hips jerk, and Harry has to pull back so he can breathe, but then he swirls his tongue along the crown and does it again and again until Louis tugs on his ear and gasps out a single, “Jesus, Harry,” before coming. Harry sits back on his heels and lets Louis’s come fall on his tongue, his fist working tight and fast. He only stops when Louis folds forward and his knees buckle from the sensitivity.

 

Louis starts tugging at Harry’s arms, trying to pull him up, and they get tangled once he’s mostly upright because he’s trying to undo his pants to get a hand around himself at the same time that Louis is licking into his mouth and flicking his nipples through his shirt, and this is the most fun Harry has had in the toilets of a club in a long time.

 

“Come back to mine, yeah? Want you to fuck me.” Louis’s slapping Harry’s hands away from his zipper and biting the word ‘please’ into his collarbone. Harry forgets to text Liam. Liam will understand.

_____________________

Louis lives off campus, in an attached rowhouse with a neat garden out front that sets it apart from the rest of the barren yards of the uni kids that live in the area. He shoots Louis a soft smile at it, pinching the thin skin of his hip, but Louis just shrugs and says, “Me mum would kill me if I left it like the rest of block. My roommate does most of the work, anyway.” He has to struggle with the door, throwing himself against it to get the old, bloated wood to give in the cold, and immediately kicks his shoes off once inside, throwing his coat into a closet without a door on it. By the time Harry’s done unzipping his boots, Louis is down to his pants.

 

“Now would be a good time to get naked. Please.” He’s walking backwards towards what Harry can only assume is his bedroom, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pants and slowly dragging them down. His grin is sloppy and his coordination is off, so that his elbows keep knocking into the wall. It’s been so long since Harry wasn’t the one doing the pulling that he blushes, his stomach swooping at the idea of his hands on Louis’s hips.

 

When Harry bends Louis over the back of the couch and fucks him, Louis bounces back into his dick with rabid enthusiasm, rolling his hips and giving himself what looks like a slight burn on his bum from Harry’s pubes. It’s almost as if he’s doing it on purpose -- using one hand to pull his ass cheeks apart so Harry can sink all the way in and then moving his hips up and down so he’s practically rubbing against Harry’s balls -- but it’s hard to tell the difference since Louis keeps up a stream of filthy encouragements that have Harry seeing stars in the corners of his eyes.

 

They’re both still tipsy enough for Louis not to react when Harry soaps his bum down in the shower after they’ve christened the kitchen table for their second go, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice when he looks in the mirror as they’re both drying off. Harry watches with his pants halfway up his thighs as Louis twists to look at his own arse, a frown on his face. He runs a finger over the reddened skin and his frown deepens before looking up at Harry again.

 

“Well you’re certainly something else, Harry Styles.”

 

Harry spends the rest of the night waiting for Louis to throw him out over it. They raid Louis’s cabinets and watch an old episode of Jeremy Kyle on the couch, nothing but pants on so the crumbs fall down Louis’s bare chest, getting stuck in the sparse hair there. At one point he picks up a half eaten chip from the detritus and pops it back into his mouth, smiling open mouthed and goofy over at Harry’s intense glare.

 

That’s just it, too, because Harry can’t stop staring but Louis doesn’t seem to mind, even pulls his legs up to drape over Harry’s lap as if to calm him. When they finally make it to the bedroom, Harry doesn’t protest, but he slouches a bit, his shoulders hunched, as if he’s waiting for the punch line. He forgets to move his lips as Louis gives him a chaste kiss goodnight, but it doesn’t seem to matter much to Louis, who winds himself around Harry’s torso in a hug before flopping onto his stomach and passing out.

 

Harry’s so confused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Louis fall asleep with his hand tucked into the curve of his armpit. That is, until he tries to get up at five in the morning to piss and beat a hasty retreat and can’t move from the way Louis has curled his fingers into Harry’s armpit hair, tugging it in his sleep.

 

 _Huh_.

_____________________

He ends up sneaking out, of course, doesn’t see a reason to stay past his welcome. He doesn’t leave his number, can’t remember Louis asking for it anyway, and as he jogs in place at the corner waiting for the walk signal he can’t help but think about how pretty Louis’s arse looked with that red blush. Harry didn’t mean to get laid his first weekend after Christmas hols, didn’t mean to leave Niall and Liam at the club without telling them where he was going, but Louis was funny, and demanding, and he insisted Harry spend the night instead of walking in the January cold. He had asked Harry to dance with vodka sour breath and a coy smile and he’d made them the worst microwave nachos Harry had ever consumed past midnight.

 

He was the kind of person Harry could see himself actually _dating_ , and he hated that he could almost hear Liam’s constant stream of cautionary relationship advice, as if on cue, for the duration of his trip back to his own bed. He shouldn’t have blown Louis in the dirty bathroom of a uni club before going back to his flat if he was looking for a long term relationship. He gets that. But, like, Louis was _fit_ , wordless in his efforts to get Harry off in the cab back to his place, scratching at his balls and pulling at the hairs stuck to his leg from the heat of the club, the heat of his own dick, like he didn’t mind it at all. He pushed Harry’s hand down the back of his pants to rest a finger over his hole for the whole ride, and kept wiggling his bum on the seat to keep it there. He was sharp, even through the slight haze of inebriation, in the way Harry can’t help falling for every time. Harry supposes life’s not always going to unfold in a linear way.

_____________________

Louis calls him on Monday.

 

“So I’ve been thinking, do you keep it untamed so people can call you Hairy Styles and not know they’re making a funny?” He says in lieu of a greeting.

 

“Um, what? Who is this?” Harry is sitting in the downstairs commons of the library between classes, trying and failing to get a piece of gum off the bottom of his favorite pair of brown boots with the broken tip of a pencil he nicked from a computer station.

 

Louis ignores him in favor of continuing his original thought. “Only I can’t think of a better pun to use. Well that and I can’t stop thinking about blowing you, but that’s not nearly as important. Harry Styles with the hairy pubes. It works for you, you know.”

 

Harry stares hard at the pink gum, willing it to disappear. “Louis?”

 

Louis whoops a delighted laugh. “The very one, Hairy Harry! I know I’m supposed to wait a week or something before calling, right, but I don’t particularly care. So is it true?”

 

Louis talks very fast. Harry only remembers Louis talking dirty. He also remembers Louis’s sharp teeth marking up the skin around his tattoos and nipping his earlobes. He definitely remembers the tone of his voice, halfway between demanding and endlessly amused. Wait, what did he say? “Is what true?”

 

There's an over-exaggerated sigh followed by a beat of silence. “About your man bush. Fancy party trick, maybe? Are you fighting against social norms?”

 

Harry thinks for a second. No one’s ever asked him that before, at least not without suggesting he shave. “I don’t. Dunno, man, I just like ‘em. How did you get my number?”

 

Louis’s tone turns very serious. “Put an ad on Craigslist for the boy with the butterfly tattoo and got a hit from some guy claiming to be your roommate. You know a Liam, by any chance?”

 

Harry frowns. Then, realizing Louis can’t see it, says, “you what?”

 

Louis laughs, loud and directly into the mouthpiece. “I looked you up in the student directory.”

 

Harry is confused. This conversation is confusing. “Oh. Right.” There’s a pause. “It’s a moth.”

 

“What’s a moth?” Louis asks.

 

“My tattoo. It’s a moth.” Harry explains, slow. 

 

“What’s the difference?” 

 

Harry thinks that Louis also sounds confused. Maybe they’re both confused. He doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad. “Dunno, like. Hey, how do you know Liam?”

 

“I don’t.” Louis is back to sounding delighted. Harry thinks he might be developing frown lines.

 

“But you said--.”

 

“Are you free Friday night, Styles?” Louis keeps cutting him off, and that usually frustrates Harry, because Harry knows he doesn’t speak very fast, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have Things To Say. Except right now, apparently. “Um, I don’t know?”

 

Louis takes his time answering, says slow and precise, “Well when you figure it out, text me. My roommate and I are having a party. You should bring Liam. He seems like he’d be fun to fuck with.”

 

Harry can’t help but smile at that. Liam _is_ fun to fuck with. “I thought you said you didn’t know him?”

 

“Great, I’ll see you Friday!” And just like that, the line goes dead.

 

Harry stares at his phone, confused but smiling. Confused about smiling? He doesn’t know. The gum is still there, at any rate, mocking him.

_____________________

Liam looks at Harry blankly when he asks about Louis that night as they’re getting ready for bed. He’s been a bit cold all day, even though they’ve barely seen each other because Liam’s lab goes until nine and Harry’s English lecture ends right after he leaves for it, but Harry has sent him twelve texts with sad face emojis and Liam only answered one. With a poop face.

 

The thing is Liam is a great friend, the reason why Harry chose this uni to begin with so they could room together, "keep the eternal flame of love burning!" as Harry had said when they’d signed their housing contracts. He’s loyal and kind and a bit dopey, and he doesn’t mind that Harry leeches his warmth in the middle of winter and makes him beatbox over Harry’s spoken word poetry he records for “my spoken word rap career, Liam, honestly.” He works hard and makes sure they’re both on top of their schoolwork when neither of them could give a wank, pushes Harry to go to the gym with him too fucking early in the morning, and keeps his half of the suite neat. Ish. Neatish.

 

Perhaps most importantly, Liam sees Harry naked about four times a day and has never once made him feel weird about his personal hygiene. Liam approves of the bush just the way it is, Harry thinks. He’d go so far as to say Liam likes it, although that might be pushing it. It’s just. Liam is still upset about Harry ditching him at the club, and Harry doesn’t really know what to do with that. Liam is supposed to love him best. That’s how this friendship works.

 

Especially since Liam is playing dumb about Louis.

 

“ _Leeyum_ , come cuddle and tell me about your day!” Harry whines, standing in the middle of the suite’s common room, hand on his hips as he does his evening yoga. He doesn't know how to do yoga but he likes the names of the positions enough to make them up as he goes along.

 

Liam’s head pops around his bedroom door frame. Harry can see a bit of toothpaste stuck in the corner of his mouth, quickly drying. “You haven’t apologized, Hazza. Don’t be a whiner if you’re not even going to apologize.”

 

“I’m sorry, Li, I should have texted you, I know, but he did this thing with his arse that I couldn’t be persuaded from.” Harry’s smile is innocent, all dimple as he pushes his own non-existent bum up into the air behind him, waving his arms in a windmill motion and wiggling his toes against the carpet. He likes how uncomfortable Liam gets when presented with details about his sex life.

 

Liam, apparently, is determined to fully chastise Harry because he ignores him and continues, “I’m not your mother, Haz, I don’t care who you go home with. Well I do, but it’s just because I want what’s best for you.”

 

Harry’s smile falters, turns down into a slight pout. “Oh. Yeah, right. Well then I suppose that’s why you’re pretending you don’t know Louis.” It’s not a question.

 

“I’m telling you, mate, I don’t know who that is.” They both know he’s lying. Liam lies about as well as Harry does, all blanched features and wide eyes. Harry hopes it’s for a good cause. Like his dick. It’d be great if Liam was doing it for the good of Harry’s dick. He can't quite figure out Liam's angle, though, so he just keeps staring at him from his position on the floor until his eyes cross and he has to blink. 

 

And just like that, he’s too tired to argue. It must be his muscles loosening after his stretches. Maybe Liam'll let him skivvy off their morning run. As he unfurls himself from the human ball he's tucked himself into and stands up he sees Liam shift from leg to leg and he just has to hug him, cross the room and get up close and nose under his jaw until Liam is laughing and stepping them further backwards into his bedroom.

 

"You're going to pull a muscle if you keep making up your own version of yoga." Liam sounds fond and it makes Harry honk in rebuttal, climb further into his chest so that they fall backwards onto Liam's tiny twin bed, knocking the air from their lungs. "I take it back, alright! It's a beautiful art form."

 

Harry hums his contentment but pinches Liam's dick through his trackies anyway. "I’m sorry I was a prat, Liam. You know I love you best," he says, winding his way around Liam’s torso until he can feel Liam’s heartbeat in at least three points of contact. He darts his tongue out to lick the toothpaste away now that it's dried.

 

Liam groans and tries to push Harry's face away. "God you're disgusting sometimes."

 

"Not everyone can be as sweet as you, Liam Payne," Harry says as he squishes Liam's cheeks together with one paw of a hand.

 

“Sleep, you dope, but keep your pants on tonight. The burn on my thigh finally cleared up.” His words have no bite, because he’s _Liam_ , but Harry still hides his face in Liam’s shoulder and snuffles until Liam gets the hint and runs his fingers through his hair.

 

Harry falls asleep thinking about the burn he left on Louis’s bum, wonders if it’s still there.

_____________________

Niall surprises Harry the next day with a bowl, a bag of weed, and a dark-haired guy sitting on their hideous uni-supplied paisley sofa. It’s not the first time Harry has gotten back from classes with a stranger in his suite; it’s not even the first time it’s been a stranger he _hasn’t_ slept with.

 

“Wey hey, what’s the craic?” Harry calls in his best Irish accent as he throws his bag through his open bedroom door, aiming for the bed and hitting the opposite wall, making Aiden pound against it from the other side. “Sorry, mate!” He calls, still imitating Niall, as he takes off his boots. Niall and his friend, who is stupidly gorgeous now that Harry’s gotten a cursory look, just laugh.

 

“You’re getting better, mate, might even convince me mum next time she calls.” Niall’s already lighting the bowl, scooting over to make room for Harry, who crawls across his lap anyway, kissing his cheek with a wet smacking sound before settling against the arm of the sofa.

 

The new guy, Quiffy McJawbone as Harry’s brain has already taken to calling him, leans across Niall and meets Harry’s fist for a friendly bump. “‘m Zayn, Niall said it was cool?” Harry’s not sure if he’s referring to the weed or his existence, but either way he is cool. So cool. The Coolest.

 

He takes a hit before answering, lips leaking smoke, “yeah, man, no problem. I’m Harry. I live here.” He figures it’s probably unnecessary to add the last part, but Zayn is really pretty. “You’re really pretty,” he says, and then blushes, because he _definitely_ didn’t mean to say that out loud.

 

Niall cackles and takes the bowl back, handing it to Zayn instead of taking a hit himself. “Zayn’s dating a big bloke, Harry, reckon you couldn’t take him. Mean, he is. Jealous.” Harry frowns at Niall instead of answering right away, because Niall only ever lets him have the first hit as a courtesy when he smokes at Harry and Liam’s, and he definitely doesn’t miss the next. 

 

Zayn smirks at Niall as he puts his lips over the opening, and Harry realizes Niall wasn’t exactly addressing Harry as he said it. When Zayn inhales and brings his head back up Niall pulls him in, sealing his lips against Zayn’s and swallowing the smoke.

 

Harry smiles then, tapping a finger against the side of his nose, already feeling loose and warm. “Big, huh? Do I happen to know him?” he asks, taking the bowl out of Zayn’s hands before he drops it.

 

Niall pulls back, exhaling the smoke and watching Zayn watch him with glassy eyes, before turning to Harry and licking his face. “Nah, man, he’s a man of mystery, that one.” Zayn ruins the effect by laughing and Niall tackles him, pulling Harry with him, yelling, “Oi, what you laughing at, quiffy?”

_____________________

An hour later they’re all laying on the floor, packets of crisps half eaten all around them, when Liam comes in from his evening run. Harry has tried to get him to stop running twice a day, but there’s only so many times he can lie on him, and anyway, Liam doesn’t make him come with anymore.

Liam immediately frowns at them all in their starfish state.

 

“I thought I told you to close my door if you’re going to smoke in the common room.” He doesn’t sound mad. He sounds, what's the word he always misspells? Harry thinks. _Exasperated_. 

 

"Liam is exasperated, guys. Aren't you, Liam?" Harry squints at Liam. 

 

“Leemo, I saved you some!” Niall calls from under the coffee table, hitting his head as he tries to sit up. Harry and Zayn start giggling, and as soon as Niall rolls out from under the wooden beast, he joins them. “Was that always there?” He says in between giggles, rubbing his forehead.

 

Liam shakes his head before crossing to his bedroom door and closing it. He falls into the lumpy armchair under the window and drops his iPod on the side table before making grabby hands for the bowl. “Just hand it over before you hurt yourself, you dumb Irish bastard.”

 

Niall collapses into giggles again, crawling up onto the couch and letting one arm and one leg flop over the side. "I can't take you seriously when you insult me, man." He pushes the bowl to the other end of the table with his big toe, but Liam has to get up anyway because the lighter is stuck in Harry’s hair and the bag of weed is inexplicably sitting on top of the microwave in the little kitchenette.

 

It’s only as he’s taking his third hit that he joins their disjointed conversation.

 

“Doctor Who? More like doctor weird confusing things happening all the time. Oh, hey, when did Zayn get here? Hey, Zayn. Hey, man.” Liam tries to reach Zayn’s arm for a fist bump but he’s too far away. He leans too far and falls off the chair onto Harry’s legs. “Oops.”

 

Harry smiles down his torso at Liam, pushing his finger into Liam’s open mouth. “I am a frog. I am happy. I think I want to marry a boy named Louis. Like the king. Do you think if he kisses me I’ll become a prince?”

 

Liam spits out Harry’s fingers before speaking. He looks deeply concerned about his answer. “I don’t know, I just. I don’t know. We should ask Niall. He’s Irish.” Harry is already nodding his head in agreement.

 

“Niall. Niall, wake up, this is important.” Harry stares at the bottom of Niall’s foot where it’s still propped up on the coffee table. Harry sometimes thinks Niall is a figment of his imagination, but he doesn't have enough evidence to go public yet, so he keeps staring, eyes wide, and mentally dares Niall’s toes to disappear or change color. He thinks maybe Niall will turn into a flower if he looks away. Harry quite likes flowers.

 

“Guys. But guys. Life is like a never-ending burpee. The individual acts aren’t what make it difficult, only the part where you have to pick yourself up off the ground.” Zayn hasn’t said anything in a long time. Harry honestly thought he was asleep.

 

Liam squints over at him, forgetting their important mission. “What?”

 

Zayn ignores Liam’s question and starts tugging feebly on the arm covering Niall’s eyes. “Oh my gosh, metaphors are like a rosetta stone to translate empathy. Niall, Niall, I need to go home and write this down before I forget. Nialler, c’mon, man, we gotta go.”

 

Niall rolls off the couch onto his knees and groggily gets to his feet before pulling Zayn up. He turns to Harry and Liam tangled together on the floor and gives them a half salute. “Keep that safe for me, will ya?” he says to Liam, pointing at the empty bag of weed, and then leans down over Harry’s face to say, “you’re already our princess, Hazza, but maybe Louis’ll make you a queen, eh?”

 

He chuckles to himself as Zayn pulls him out of the door muttering something about the agony of existence. Zayn stops them before the door closes, as if remembering something, and doubles back. “You guys are coming to the party on Friday, right?”

 

Harry stares at him upside down. “How are you so pretty, though?” 

 

Zayn looks at him blankly and Harry’s smile turns lopsided. He can’t remember the question. 

 

It’s Liam who answers. “Louis told me, yeah, we’ll be there.” 

 

Fifteen minutes later as Harry is fighting Liam for the last crisp, he says, “Heeeyy, wait a minute.” He smacks Liam in the balls and grabs for the bag. “When did you talk to Louis?” 

 

Liam jumps up, one hand cupping his junk and the other holding the bag. He drops the bag into Harry’s lap and runs towards his bedroom. “Gotta shower, night, Haz!” 

 

He slams his door and Harry is left in the middle of the floor with crumbs surrounding him and the taste of weed strong on his tongue. He eats the crisp, but he’s no longer happy about it.

_____________________

He doesn’t plan on going to the party. He’s behind on revisions _already_ and his Econ professor keeps giving him these sympathetic eyes like she knows he knows that she _knows_ how bad he is at faking interest in her class, let alone a law career. He drags through the rest of his week of classes, barely managing to keep up with how much work his professors keep piling on and missing a lunch date with Gemma when she’s in town visiting a friend.

 

Wednesday turns into Thursday and Thursday turns into Friday morning and Harry wakes to twenty-three text messages from Louis consisting primarily of fire and emergency vehicle emojis he assumes are trying to tell him something but only one of his eyes is open and anyway, yep, that’s Louis phoning again.

 

“‘Lo?” He rasps out, rolling over to escape the sunlight.

 

“Jesus, Styles, I am going to pretend that I don’t find your morning voice extremely arousing. Although to be fair I would have been more prepared if you had just stayed last weekend like a normal person.” Louis’s voice is equally rough, but at least he sounds more alert than Harry feels.

 

“Morning, Louis.”

 

“Morning, mate! You coming tonight?”

 

Harry coughs. “I’ve got a lot of revision to do...” he begins, tone apologetic.

 

“Don’t do that. If you’re going to let a guy down, at least come up with a sick mother or something. Who does revision on a Friday night? Besides, you’re the guest of honor.”

 

“Do you even understand the concept of a one night sta--Hold on, I’m the what?”

 

“You’re our guest of honor! Liam sounded right excited about it when I told him, said something about you, and I quote, ‘finally settling down,’ like you’re some sort of STD-ridden maniac. Which, hey, should I be worried about that? Because, like, you said you’re 19 but what if you’re secretly 85 and pulling one of those Benjamin Button situations. Oh, and guess what? I think my roommate Zayn might be your friend Niall’s dealer or something, they’re always in Zayn’s room with the door closed singing Tom Petty real loud past three.” Louis seems to be talking to himself, mostly, but Harry likes it. He could fall back asleep with Louis rasping away in his ear.

 

Then his brain catches up. “You’re roommates with Zayn?”

 

“Yeah, you know him?” It’s nice to catch Louis off guard for once, Harry thinks.

 

“Just met him, but yeah. I think he and Niall are fucking, although I’m still unclear about that. He’s, like, stupidly gorgeous, did you know?”

 

Louis is quiet a moment. “I do,” he says, voice short.

 

It takes Harry’s sleep-addled brain a minute to catch up but when it does he smirks into his palm. Louis sounds _jealous_. He lets him sweat a minute while he tries to smother the delighted look off his face and into the pillow, before saying, voice carefully casual, “Yeah, all right. I’ll be there.” He tacks on, “You can ignore Liam, by the way, he has no idea what he’s talking about. Are you ever gonna tell me how you know him?”

 

He’s cracked and smiling already, knows Louis can hear it in his voice, like he can’t help himself, which is kind of true, and when Louis answers Harry can hear the grin stuck there too, like it travelled through the speaker. “Where’s the fun in that? Be here around ten, yeah?”

 

He hangs up, as abruptly as last time, and Harry is once again left staring at his phone with a confused smile crooking his lips.

_____________________

It’s well below freezing when Harry finally remembers the correct street to turn onto, and even with his hands tucked into his armpits and his scarf covering his nose, he shows up at Louis and Zayn’s flat an hour late with a running nose and pink cheeks. Liam had left the dorm around seven, spouting some lie about a study date, saying he’d meet up with Harry at the party, leaving him without a ride. Niall hadn’t even bothered to answer his phone when Harry called to moan about it. Wankers.

 

The door is wide open when he walks up, and he can feel the heat pouring from inside from the bottom of the steps. He has to step around two girls twirling each other in the yard, drunk but careful enough of the garden that Harry thinks they must be close friends of Louis or Zayn, and when he gets inside he has to push to get through to the kitchen.

He sees Louis immediately, standing on the big butcher block and singing along to the Biggie remix coming from somewhere behind him. The crowd parts more easily for him in this room, and he’s able to get right next to the island. He can’t trap the laugh that erupts quickly enough, catching Louis's attention, watching him glance around until he’s staring down right at Harry’s flushed face. Louis’s grin turns manic, then; he lets out a howl and jumps onto Harry, swinging his legs until they’re tight around Harry’s middle and Harry’s hands are under his bum, supporting him.

 

“Thought you were standing me up, Harry Styles!” Louis’s not drunk, is the thing, his eyes are clear and his sweater is soft and he’s completely sober. Harry wants to kiss him.

 

“Fashionably late is the term you’re looking for, I think.” He sets Louis down and doesn’t even get a chance to say a proper hello before Louis is tugging on his collar and leading him down the hall. 

 

“Hey, I thought I was the guest of honor. Aren’t you going to introduce me around?” Harry says it because he feels like it needs to be said, not because he particularly cares whether Louis introduces him to the hordes of people at the party. He’d much rather let Louis drag him around. 

 

Louis doesn’t even glance back at him to answer. “Look, I’ll be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about blowing you since last week. But it’s becoming a real problem because you’re here and I’m not on my knees yet.”

 

Harry stops thinking after that.

_____________________

Louis's looking at the wiry tuft of Harry’s bush like a jungle cat cleaning its nails after a particularly bloody kill. Like he's ready to use Harry's pubes as floss. It's enough to make Harry crazy because he hasn't even gone completely soft but Louis looks ready to dive back in.

 

“Can you, like, give me a minute?” He huffs out, curling in on himself while he tries to remember what it’s like to breathe normally. 

 

Louis smirks up at him, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls up Harry’s body until they’re at eye level. “Weird to have beard burn from something other than a beard.” He leans in and coaxes Harry’s tongue out, sucking it into his mouth and pressing himself all along Harry’s body. They’re both still mostly clothed. Harry might be in love.

 

The music is still so loud, even with the door locked, but Louis doesn’t look like he’s planning on moving anytime soon. They make out until Harry can’t feel his lips anymore, until the lightest kiss feels like a bruise, and only then does Louis roll to the side and half heartedly palm himself through his trousers.

 

“You’ll stay tonight, right?” He asks, turning his face to nuzzle behind Harry’s ear. “Like, the whole night. No skipping out this time.” He sounds unsure.

 

“Yeah, yeah, the whole night. We can convince Liam to do a kegstand. Either that or tie him up and slap him a bunch. I’m not picky. He’ll hate both. Is he here? Did you see him come in?” Harry turns to face Louis on the bed, running his hand over the front of Louis’s jeans and smiling when Louis meets his gaze.

 

“Have you ever heard of pogonotrophy?” Louis asks, ignoring Harry’s question and batting his hand away from creeping under the waistband of his jeans.

 

Harry blinks. “Pogo what?” He frowns, moving his hand around to Louis’s bum and kneading it.

 

“Pogonotrophy. The science of beard growing. Think you could grow one?” He undoes the clasp of his jeans and pushes them down enough so that he can get his dick free. He’s not wearing any pants. 

 

“I don’t--don’t know, really, never tried. Haven’t shaved in two days, can you tell?” He means to look at Louis but he can’t tear his gaze from the way Louis is fisting himself, how he swipes a thumb over his slit to catch the precome gathered there and slicks himself down with it. His grip looks tight, almost painful, and he’s steadily stroking himself like it’s nothing.

 

“We,” Louis pauses, twists his fist with an upward tug, “we can work on that.” He’s a bit breathless.

 

Harry keeps squeezing his bum, his hands slipping into the crease. Louis lets out a sigh.

 

“You want me to grow a beard for you?” Harry can feel his cock fattening again at the thought. 

 

“Maybe just a mustache. Wanna--ahh, wanna feel it when you eat me out, yeah.” Louis is close enough to pant hotly into Harry’s mouth, close enough to kiss. Harry can’t help that his finger slides dry and rough over Louis’s hole at the admission, how he bites down on Louis’s still swollen lower lip as he comes.

 

Harry has a brilliant idea. “We can, like, I don’t know, make an art project out of it. Take weekly measurements. That kind of thing.” He’s only halfway joking.

 

Louis smiles into his neck before biting down. “I think I might love you, Harry Styles,” he says, “but don’t let it go to your head.”

_____________________

It takes a while for them to rejoin the party after that. When they finally emerge from Louis’s room they both smell of spunk and sweat, and their hair is distinctly bed rumpled, but they’re holding hands and smiling goofily at each other, and Harry can’t remember a time when he’s felt so loose. They find Liam with Niall and Zayn in the living room, the party mostly broken up. Harry glances at his watch to see it’s almost half past three.

 

“There’s our lovebirds!” Niall crows, climbing into Zayn’s lap to make room for Harry and Louis on the couch. Harry sees Louis narrow his eyes meaningfully at Zayn, but he doesn’t say anything. Harry makes to pull Louis down with him on the couch, when at the last second, Louis runs over to Liam and jumps into his lap, knocking both them and the chair Liam’s sitting in over.

 

Once Louis has stopped giggling long enough to breathe, he helps Liam up. “Gentle Liam, did Zayn introduce you to any fit lasses this fine evening? It’s only fair that we all get laid now that Zayn and Niall are for sure shacking up. By the way, thanks for telling me, Zayner. Had to find out from our Harry, here.” Harry thinks it’s beautiful that Louis can smile so sweetly at Liam and full out glare at Zayn within the span of ten seconds. 

 

“We’re not dating,” Niall supplies helpfully. “That’s a lie, we totally are. Have you seen his face?”

 

No one even bothers to answer, although Harry does nod his head. Vigorously. 

 

“I met a few people, sure. They were all very nice. Even set up a study date with a girl in my business studies course," Liam says, hand much too casually wrapped around Louis’s waist to keep him balanced on the arm of the chair. Harry stares very intently at where they’re touching.

 

“I think he meant did you hook up with anyone, Li,” Zayn says, and why is he smiling so fondly at Liam? Do they all secretly know each other without Harry?

 

“Is anyone going to explain to me how you two know each other?” Harry looks over to Niall and Zayn for help, but they’re already too busy touching each other’s nipples in some weird, public sex game. Liam and Louis are grinning at each other and Harry hates it, wants Louis sitting next to him with their thighs touching, and anyway his friends are all assholes.

 

“Harry, love, don’t pout.” Louis moves to sit next to Harry, pulling his legs up into Harry’s lap and curling into his side. He slides a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, tugging him closer so he can whisper in his ear, “I’ll let you fuck me in that chair when he leaves.”

_____________________


End file.
